“You!—­perhaps! But between General
de Prerolles and myself the declaration of war is
without quarter. Is it not, General?” said
Valentine, laughing.

“It is the only declaration that fate permits
me to make to you, Mademoiselle,” Henri replied,
rather dryly, laying emphasis on the double sense
of his words.

This rejoinder, which nothing in the playful attack
had justified, irritated the Duchess, but Valentine
appeared to pay no attention to it, and at ten o’clock,
when a gypsy band began to play in the long gallery,
she arose.

“Although we are a very small party,”
she said, “would you not like to indulge in
a waltz, Mesdames? The gentlemen can not complain
of being crowded here,” she added, with a smile.

M. de Lisieux and M. de Nointel, as well as Edmond
Delorme, hastened to throw away their cigarettes,
and all made their way to the long gallery. The
Baron de Samoreau and the Chevalier de Sainte-Foy remained
alone together.

The Duchess took the occasion to speak quietly to
her brother.

“I assure you that you are too hard with her,”
she said. “There is no need to excuse yourself
for not marrying. No one dreams of such a thing—­she
no more than any one else. But she seems to have
a sentiment of friendship toward you, and I am sure
that your harshness wounds her.”

A more experienced woman than Madame de Montgeron,
who had known only a peaceful and legitimate love,
would have quickly divined that beneath her brother’s
brusque manner lurked a budding but hopeless passion,
whence sprang his intermittent revolt against the
object that had inspired it.

This revolt was not only against Zibeline’s
fortune; it included her all-pervading charm, which
penetrated his soul. He was vexed at his sister
for having brought them together; he was angry with
himself that he had allowed his mind to be turned
so quickly from his former prejudices; and, however
indifferent he forced himself to appear, he was irritated
against Lenaieff because of the attentions which that
gentleman showered upon Zibeline, upon whom he revenged
himself by assuming the aggressive attitude for which
the Duchess had reproached him.

In a still worse humor after the sisterly remonstrance
to which he had just been compelled to listen, he
seated himself near the entrance of the gallery, where
the gypsy band was playing one of their alluring waltzes,
of a cadence so different from the regular and monotonous
measure of French dance music.

The three couples who were to compose this impromptu
ball, yielded quickly to the spell of this irresistible
accompaniment.

“Suppose Monsieur Desvanneaux should hear that
we danced on the eve of Palm Sunday?” laughingly
pro-tested Madame de Lisieux.